Ice Skates and Love for Christmas

Have you ever noticed that some Christmases are better than others? Somehow the magic of Christmas is captured some years while others come and go - somehow sliding by without a noteworthy moment to hang onto or a memorable moment to have the day "saved" (pun intended).

I am a deeply religious person, and as such I believe that Christmas should first and foremost be about the honoring of that great and sacred day - the birth of the Savior of the world - Jesus Christ. I can't help but think that the two are related, that the years "saved" are somehow done so because of a certain sacredness that attends that year. Let me try to explain by sharing a Christmas I remember.

All my childhood my parents were poor, but they did their best to provide for my two brothers, my sister, and myself. What that meant, many times, is that we would get underwear for Christmas from my parents and the "Fun" stuff would come from Santa and my Nonie and Popie (who didn't have to hide behind the red cloak of a Saint who got to claim all the wonderfulness of life at Christmastime). I knew that things were tight (who could miss that fact when beans were a major staple for dinner and milk - obtained from our family cow - was halved with powdered milk to make it last longer) so I rarely dared ask for anything more than love and a fifty cent item.

Well, one year I spent a major portion of the year dreaming of becoming an Olympic ice skater - the Olympics were on and I was CERTAIN I had it in me to become as beautiful and graceful as one of those leotard clad women; so I dared ask for a pair of ice skates from Santa (best not to ask from my parents - no hope for a desperate girl there). My whole season was spent along the same lines as Ralphie in The Christmas Story, complete with day dreaming about gliding on ice and having the fans applaud for me whilst throwing HUGE bunches of roses onto the ice for me to elegantly swoop up and wave at my adoring fans. I just knew those skates were the ticket for my entire future...and all I need do is wait for that magic moment Christmas morning and my dreams and hopes would be answered.

Christmas Eve was torture. It lasted twenty-four years instead of twenty-four hours. And I'm not exaggerating either (didn't my mother tell me a million times never to exaggerate?).

Finally Christmas morning arrived (does it count as Christmas morning if it is 3 am but there is a HINT of pink on the horizon? Apparently not because I was sent back to bed with explicit instructions to not arrive demanding Santa Stocking Unveiling before 7 am on threat of life.). I swear my Dad took his time getting dressed and shaved Christmas morning (something he ALWAYS did EVERY Christmas morning - much to our impatience and chagrin) so he could enjoy our loud outcries even more. We were finally allowed into the living room to discover the wondrous things Santa left us...but there were no ice skates. I was crushed. A lump swelled up in my throat the size of a Texas grapefruit and I felt as if I could never more breathe or live happily again. It was a quiet desperation carried out in silence while I slowly and despairingly removed item after stupid item from my Christmas stocking. Santa was stupid anyway. What did he know about answering childhood dreams and helping a girl obtain her every wish anyway? And how stupid was I to believe that all my life's dreams would be answered in this one morning? I knew better. I knew life was hard and that milk and meat were hard fought for and that life's needs were something to be earned and that if every once in awhile a luxury came along you enjoyed and savored it because who knew when it would ever come again?

I got over the moment. I put a grin on my face when my brothers showed me their new Tonka trucks. I was happy for my sister when she showed off her new Bonnie Bell lipstick. Heavy sigh.

It came time to open presents and I admit I was dragging my feet. What could possibly be in those boxes that could possibly make up for a life's dream being crushed by the fat man in the red suit? My parents and grandparents were insistent and so I sat down with the family and watched as my brothers and sister and parents and grandparents opened present after stupid present. Really, who cared anyway about that new pen my Popie happily tucked into his breast pocket? What was so important to that picture frame holding our family picture taken out front of our house that year and given to my Nonie? I could care less. This was a stupid day and this was a stupid tradition and I was done with the whole thing - really I was!

Finally there was only one box per person left. These boxes had been placed at the back of the tree and were all pulled out by my Popie with a huge grin on his face. Now, I loved my Popie, and I would have moved the world for him if he asked, and I could tell this was important to him so I was sticking it out for him and only him. If it had been anyone else I would have long ago stomped up to my room and slammed the door (for which I would have been given the penance of quietly closing the door 50 times) and thrown myself onto my bed with typical early teenage drama declaring there would never be a happy moment ever, ever, ever again. But since it was my Popie I pasted a happy look on my face and accepted my box and awaited opening instructions because apparently it was important that we all open these boxes together. So the word was out and we were all instructed to open our presents together and I started sadly peeling the paper off of mine because I just knew it was underwear or something akin to it when I looked around and noticed no one else was opening their box - that they were all watching expectantly as I opened mine. When I asked they all chimed that they were waiting for me and why was I taking an eternity anyway - Honestly! A new hope swelled in my breast as a realization dawned on me that there might be some milk of human kindness in this world - and I started ripping and tearing in earnest.

I opened the box.

There they were - the most beautiful pair of white ice skates you have ever seen in your life (fresh from the Penneys catalog - ordered by my Nonie who was a Penneys shopper extraordinare and who had spent her years solely keeping JCPenney afloat all on her own according to her telling of it) and guess who else got ice skates that year? My entire family! Complete with gloves and scarves to match for each person personally hand knit by my sweet Nonie. I gasped with joy and tears and instantly started peeling off my shoes and trying to get those skates on my feet.

That afternoon as a family we walked down that sweet snowy country road of my childhood which has now forever changed into a rural city complete with million dollar homes and yards where cows and alfalfa fields used to dwell in the summer and snowdrifts as tall as your head in the winter. We walked to the canal at the end of the street and used brooms and shovels one and all to clear a part of the canal big enough for us all to skate and swerve around and fall as a family. My Nonie brought hot cocoa in a thermos and we laughed and fell and skated and swigged cocoa and all I remember is watching my family cavort on the ice and having a deeply happy and satisfied feeling deep in my chest and stomach and somewhere in the ache behind my eyes that said all was right in the world and that there was something out there for a girl who had big hopes and dreams for the future - something more than hard fought for beans and milk.

I didn't become a famous Olympic ice skater. I, as a matter of fact, never even mastered the art of skating backwards or even doing a spin with my arms tucked to my side and slowly working their way upwards in an elegant spiral which would then be opened to a beautiful open arm and a slow swooping out of the spin.

What I did become is a college professor of English with some very sweet memories of family and childhood saved for her like snapshots of happiness and joy (and sometimes even deeper pain).

Why is this memory "saved" for me? I know it is not because I got ice skates for Christmas. This memory is "saved" because it is surrounded by family and love. I love my family. I miss my Nonie and Popie. My Popie has been dead 15 years now this Christmas. I miss him. I love him. I know I will see him again and when I do I will hug him around the neck and whisper in his ear "thank you for the ice skates" and hopefully he will know that what I am really whispering is "thank you for loving me".